


salvage

by Gildedstorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Cannibalism Mentions, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, it's hive it's going to be a bit gross, only Hive OCs here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedstorm/pseuds/Gildedstorm
Summary: A truth never spoken of: if there was to be a place where the sword logic was stretched and tested, it would be among the High Coven.An acolyte trapped in her dying mother's throne world learns this in what should be her last moments.Or: a Hive wizard does their job and goes recruiting.





	salvage

**Author's Note:**

> I have so much destiny fic to work on, so of course I was struck by an idea and wrote it out in a matter of days instead
> 
> one of my favourite things is to think about how the hive _works_, given their civilization operates on such a ridiculous scale; do they have standardized practices? who builds the ships, and keeps track of tithes? how do they organize having and raising young? chirraek as a character came from these musings - they're a middle manager that deals solely with other hive
> 
> and since it's the hive, management still involves murder, of course!

Pressed into one of the many hollowed spaces in her parent’s throne world, Ysraan waits for her mother to die. The battle has gone on for a long time, as is the way of wizards, and the challenge is only the final unfolding of it into true violence.

The defeat doesn’t come easily. That is why she is hiding, because not even an hour ago her parent had turned all the breathable air to salt-laced poison, and torn loose the many-edged columns of her throne to hurl at the invader. The entire world shook with their impact, and even the safe pockets of air in the hidden paths caught at her throat like barbs.

But the ground is still now, and the air no longer itches when she breathes. Her siblings and the youngest brood are crammed in behind her, a throng of chitin and new bone and gleaming anxious eyes. They do not scrabble and claw for space, but huddle close, told by instinct to be quiet and very, very small.

It won’t save them. But instinct also says that while the many will be found and slaughtered, maybe one will be overlooked in the crush of bodies, maybe one can escape, and maybe they can be that one….

They all feel the chill that rolls through the throne world, the final shudders of a dead thing. Have the sword stars gone out, and the sky darkened? Are the edges of it crumbling even now?

One of the thralls has set teeth to her elbow, gnawing without any bite to it, just to feel something strong and living still. Ysraan shakes them off, pushing them back into the press of their siblings so they won’t follow as she makes for the surface.

The ground twitches and heaves beneath her feet, and beneath its unhappy rumbling she hears the brittle, indistinct sounds of Hive and worm both feeding. She can’t say why she came this far – to face what will kill her? To see her parent, wispy branches of chitin pared away, husked and wetly gleaming? – but she can go no further, and huddles down in one of the deep, acid-worn pits the battle had left behind. It is not even a hiding place, and a lone acolyte with no leader to tithe to is small enough to kill with a thought.

The intruder – no, the victor now – finishes eating somewhere in the distance, and when next Ysraan looks up, they float there, waiting for her attention.

The wizard is pale and fragile, like the discarded shell of something long dead. Their wings trail behind them, long and tattered, and much of their robes have been burnt away, but even wounded they glow with the sleek, sated power of another ascendant.

She faces her death with starveling envy. Maybe they will think she is the only stray Hive here, and not look for the others.

“What a waste,” the wizard says, voice a humming rasp. Surely they mean her – a half-grown acolyte must be barely a mouthful, now. They tilt their head, third eye closing in concentration, and she waits for the gesture or word that will kill her. Once she is eaten too, will their throne world wrap around this one and swallow the fragments into itself?

It won’t matter. Her siblings will be dead regardless. But she can’t help but wonder, as if her mind has to cling to something that is not the helplessness of the small, weak, doomed.

It takes a long moment for her to realize that she still has not been killed and devoured, and she eases her eyes open to find out why.

The wizard has not moved, and clicks their jaws at her fear display. “This is no place for you, acolyte. Such a pointless risk to bring so many young here. You were named, yes?”

They say it so briskly that Ysraan doesn’t catch the question at first, and then tries to return to her earlier plan. She is one of the first to have gained her sight, and if she is nothing before an ascendant, the others are even less so. They should all die together with this throne, not be hunted down in the dark by such a power.

“I – I am the only one here, Ascendant. I am Ysraan.” She gestures supplication and unfeigned awe, clawed hands raised, as if she can ward off what is coming if she is just harmless enough. Surely no one has ever let even the smallest of thralls go for such a reason. Weakness deserves death, as strength deserves life, yet the instinct remains, as deep as the logic she hatched into.

They laugh, the sound dry and soft. “A good effort, but needless. Your brood – and the ones who made it – are part of my many, many duties. I could hardly overlook you.” Another endless moment in which she does not die. “Do you know why I am here?”

They must be waiting for her to speak it into existence. “You killed my mother. We are what remains. It is not – I do not have to guess, Ascendant.”

“What remains,” they say, tasting the words. “Very good. I am here for the remnants of what your mother has wrought, yes. Not to scour them, but to salvage them.”

Ysraan waits there, resolve wavering. She is not so young as to not recognize the traces of ancient gold on their crest. This wizard is of the High Coven. It would be foolish to expect any shred of truth. But they are watching her too closely, when killing her would be the work of a passing thought.

“What do you wish of us, Ascendant?”

“I am Chirraek,” they say, though she had not dared to ask that. “I wish for you to live, and grow to the purpose you are meant for. And not to be thrown away early for some petty scheme.” Ysraan refuses to wonder at that. If she survives this, she will have time enough to gnaw at what her mother had intended, and what had driven another Ascendant to stop her – far from the sword realm, and where only her worm can hear her thoughts.

“Gather your siblings, and tithe to me. I will return you to your crypt.” She hesitates, uncertainty biting deep enough to slow her steps, and they add, “Or you may stay here, and honour your parent with the deaths she meant for you.”

If she listens hard, she can hear the world’s collapse, even the echoes tearing themselves apart as they reach her.

This is a dying place, and she is so, so hungry for life.

“I wish the same for us,” she says into this place of broken, crumbling will, and with Chirraek’s mirror-dark eyes on her back and the throne world’s dying breaths shaking the air, Ysraan turns and goes to find her siblings.


End file.
